


Fight or Flight

by quinnkng



Category: UnREAL (TV)
Genre: Angst, Codependency, F/F, Unhealthy Relationships, kingsgold drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2021-04-03 17:08:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21484399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quinnkng/pseuds/quinnkng
Summary: With gasoline on her hands, Rachel turns up at Quinn's house in the middle of the night. Alternate ending for S4 & continuation. Kingsgold wouldn't stop just because Everlasting does.
Relationships: Rachel Goldberg & Quinn King, Rachel Goldberg/Quinn King
Comments: 11
Kudos: 27





	1. Firefight

Walking up Quinn’s driveway, Rachel’s heart feels like it’s misplaced itself, become a rock lodged in her throat. It seems useless, serving little purpose other than to beat far too quickly and make her palms sticky. She thinks that’s always been the purpose of the organ in her life; to get in the way––to make her life more complicated. Like with work, when some semblance of a conscience kicks in and makes her producing difficult. Like with Quinn, how as she approaches the door she can practically hear her own blood pounding in her ears. It’s dizzying. It’s annoying. 

Rachel’s senses are always heightened when Quinn is around. It’s a heart-racing, mind-fucking kind of painful awareness that engulfs her completely. It’s a warmth in her chest and a buzz in her head—sometimes more of a head _ ache _ , depending on the day. Over the years Rachel has perfected the art of being kept at arm’s length and it hurts but it’s addicting too. With Quinn’s fingers forever wrapped around her throat, sometimes it seems like Rachel can hardly even take a breath—but if she’s being essentially honest with herself, that’s how she likes it.

On the drive over, her eyes kept flicking to the rearview mirror. In every light streaking past she saw the orange glow of Everlasting. Now it’s gone; done; over. The disparity in her emotions feels like a cruel taunt: On one hand, the smoke that had filled her lungs felt like sweet relief coursing through her veins. On the other hand, the black fumes swirled and stuck to her insides, coating her guts entirely. 

Now, though, it’s a new kind of anxiety that drips off Rachel’s palms and onto Quinn’s front stoop. It’s not stress over getting a suitor to choose the right (wrong) girl to get a rise out of her boss. She’s used to that game. It’s not the tense air of Quinn’s office, heavy with the scent of alcohol (that Rachel would help herself to, keen to quell the feeling tugging at her chest.) Rachel’s used to that game too. No, this anxiety is different. The stakes are too high and this is too real. If this is a game too, she wonders if she herself has been played. For once, Rachel isn’t sure if she’s won.

She has a pie, a condolence, a peace offering for Chet she guesses, though truthfully it was also just something to keep her hands busy with post-arson. She tells herself the fire is the only reason she’s anxious, why she had to keep both of her stupid hands glued to the steering wheel to keep them from shaking while she drove. And yeah, that’s part of it. But realistically, this feeling has just as much to do with the woman upstairs as it does the gasoline on her hands. There’s a pit in her stomach and its name is Quinn King.

The door opens after three knocks from Rachel’s shaky fist.

“Here. I baked it. I mean, I- I wouldn’t eat it, but I made it.” 

She feels stupid with the shitty pie in her hands. She’s not here to make small talk with Chet.

“I love her,” says Chet, and Rachel nods. She tries to appreciate the fact that this statement is the only thing they have in common.

“Me, too.”

Inside, Chet returns to his spot on the sofa, sighing as he slumps into the cushions, assuming his natural position.

“She’s upstairs,” he gestures to the hallway, “Thanks for the pie, weirdo.”

Upstairs Rachel stops, hovers for a moment at the bedroom door taking a deep breath of air thick with expensive perfume. This does nothing to calm her. With anxious eyes tracing the door frame she tries her best to calm down, steady her breathing, gather her words. The white lacquered wood is a threshold that once she dares pass through, there may be no coming back from. She and Quinn have fucked each other over more times than she can count this past season, but the potential finality of this offense has her head spinning.

Quinn is laying in bed, magazine in her lap with one hand resting behind her head. The warm glow of the fireplace illuminates her skin and the light dances over her features in a way that has Rachel’s fingers jealous, twitching to do the same. She’s been here before, but seeing Quinn so relaxed, so  _ soft, _ is mesmerizing still. She closes the door behind her and can’t help but just stand for perhaps a beat too long examining the other woman. Quinn looks up at the sound and sits up.

“I like your hair,” she smiles, and it’s rare. Disarming. Rachel is taken aback for a moment, almost smiles back, but catches herself. This is not the time for pleasantries, no matter how rare they may be, no matter how they cause Rachel’s chest to flutter. So she doesn’t match Quinn’s smile, just stares.

She hears herself stutter after a beat, or a hundred, “I just committed second-degree arson for you.”

“Good. Good girl,” Quinn nods, pats the space next to her on the bed and returns her attention to her magazine. When Rachel doesn’t move she looks up, bemused.

“What, should I be flattered? Do you want a medal?” scoffs Quinn, and it’s almost a laugh. She’s still playing games. 

So, Rachel ignores the comment and stares back at her, singes holes in her duvet, shoots daggers and all the ice she can muster until Quinn’s smile drops. 

The older woman can see Rachel’s crazy eyes from across the room, and behind them the impending freakout only Goldberg could deliver. She sighs, runs a hand through her hair, and closes her magazine.

“Oh please, don’t start with this shit,” Quinn frowns, shaking her head, trying to downplay Rachel’s frantic energy. She watches as nervous tidal waves rise and fall in the swell of her chest. 

“Come on, Gold...ie.” The nickname tumbles off her tongue clumsily. She’s about to say “Goldberg,” but halfway through realizes the snappy surname feels strange on her lips—out of place in the quiet, hazy light of her bedroom. She waits another moment for Rachel to say something, but no. The brown eyes boring into her have her feeling uncomfortable and quite frankly annoyed at this point.

“Don’t act like I’m the only one who wanted out of that shithole, or wait, should I say  _ ‘Satan’s Asshole? _ ” She quips, and Rachel finally takes the bait.

“ _ Don’t,”  _ she warns but doesn’t meet Quinn’s eyes anymore. “I’m just saying  _ whose _ idea was this? And yet I’m the only one with gas on my hands,” Rachel shakes her head, suddenly out of her trance, beginning to pace back and forth at the foot of the bed. Quinn just rolls her eyes.

“If you haven’t washed your hands yet, please don’t touch anything,” she says as Rachel shoots her a glare.

“Quinn, I could go to JAIL!”

“If I was going to let you go to jail, you’d have been locked up a long time ago.”

“Oh, yeah, right, no big deal; you’ll take care of it,” Rachel mutters. She floats her eyes up to the ceiling, avoiding Quinn’s piercing gaze.

“...Yeah, I will. What is going on?” Quinn asks, one perfect brow arched in challenge. Rachel isn’t looking, though. The last thing she needs is Quinn’s green eyes making her forget what she needs to say. 

“I’m just trying to figure out why I’m always the one walking into the fire, doing your freaking dirty work, and then you just get to sit back and decide whether to let me drown?” 

Rachel’s voice rises and cracks, and she hates the sound. Her own words echo in her ears and she cringes. Finally, she turns to meet Quinn’s scowl. The older woman’s eyes cut right through her and Rachel wishes she hadn’t looked.

“Are you kidding me?” Quinn hisses, “Really? First of all, have I ever not saved your ass? You know, cleaning up your messes isn’t as easy as I make it look; Jesus, Rach, do you even KNOW how many people I’ve had to bribe, how much I’ve had to endanger  _ my _ career-”

“That’s not the point! You’ve always held all the cards and honestly I don’t want to be kept on your leash anymore. I’m over it, Quinn, really, it’s sick,” Rachel spits.

Quinn is silent, stares her down for a moment. Rachel stares back. The rock in her throat has turned into shards of glass. She wasn’t entirely sure how this conversation was going to go when she came over but knew the chances of it ending in flames were high. They always were. Though, that knowledge doesn’t make Quinn’s venom sting any less. 

“The only thing sick here is  _ you _ .” Her voice low, she speaks slowly, punctuating each word with a curl of her lip.

“You need to pull your head out of that high horse’s ass. I didn’t make you do anything, Rachel—You're a twisted person all on your own. If you want to go, then fine. Run away to Africa or wherever the fuck, sell your land, your shack, and all that goat shit. Get the fuck away from me if that’s what you really want.” She shakes her head with a sneer, “It’ll be a load off my shoulders.”


	2. A Shower, a Smoke, and a Drink

_ “The only thing sick here is you.” Her voice low, she speaks slowly, punctuating each word with a curl of her lip. _

_ “You need to pull your head out of that high horse’s ass. I didn’t make you do anything, Rachel—You're a twisted person all on your own. If you want to go, then fine. Run away to Africa or wherever the fuck, sell your land, your shack, and all that goat shit. Get the fuck away from me and be free if that’s what you really want.” She shakes her head with a sneer, “It’ll be a load off my shoulders.” _

* * *

Rachel had nodded once, part of a single sharp movement with which she turned on her heel and slammed the door behind her. Quinn is left disgruntled in the aftermath. She had been nearly ready for bed when Rachel stormed in, but sleep isn’t in the cards for her anymore.

Now frustrated and wide awake she has a pounding headache. All too often that seems to be the result of interacting with Rachel. Fighting with her right-hand woman isn’t unusual, but that doesn’t mean it isn't bothersome—as much as she’ll vehemently deny the fact if ever suggested. She sighs and rifles through her purse, one hand pinching the bridge of her nose. She needs nicotine and a drink. Marlboros in hand, she hesitates while walking past the marbled bathroom; she could use a shower too.

She turns on the water, hot enough to quickly fill the room with steam. As the mirror fogs over, it seeps from under the door and into the empty bedroom. Stripping off each layer of her pajamas, her mind replays the argument. Each button her fingers unsnap sounds like her and Rachel’s voices:

_ Snap _

_ “Jesus, Rach-” _

_ Snap _

_ “Whose idea was this?” _

_ Snap _

_ “Don’t start with that shit-” _

_ Snap _

_ “Quinn, really, it’s sick-” _

_ Snap _

_ “Get the fuck away from me-” _

The silent words seem to swirl around her in the humidity, bouncing off tile, marble countertops, the glass of the mirror, and back to her. They taste bitter on her lips and she steps into the water, letting it wash over her. Taking a mouthful, she swishes it around her teeth and spits as if it can cleanse her tongue of the acidity.

She stands under the water until it starts to run cold far too quickly, and frowns thinking of how Chet spent thousands on TVs for his “man cave,” yet couldn’t invest in a larger goddamn water heater. Quinn turns the water off and wraps herself in a towel. Standing in the mirror she examines the bags under her eyes and recalls Rachel’s watery stare. The Goldberg™ freakout hadn’t exactly surprised her, but she had expected (or hoped for) a different Rachel traipsing through her bedroom door: a confident Rachel, a Rachel who felt relieved with the weight of Everlasting finally off her shoulders. What she really wanted to see tonight was her dragon. 

But Quinn hasn’t seen her dragon in what feels like months. They used to be unstoppable, an unreal force together on set. This past season had the two at each other's throats more than at each other’s sides, though, and they certainly had the roller coaster ratings to prove it.

Back in her silk pajamas, Quinn slips out of the bedroom, winds down the stairs and into the kitchen where she pours herself a generous glass of Grey Goose. She passes Chet in the next room, head thrown back on the leather couch, snoring louder than the TV. She crinkles her nose and averts her gaze.

Outside, the air is sticky with humidity, with drops of water decorating the deck, reflecting the porch light in a way that has Quinn almost reminiscing on the way she’d slip away from the cameras on set, up to the balcony, to the wrought iron railing where she’d rest her wrists, tired from carrying an entire show. One holds a walkie with which she would bark directions. One holds a generous glass of gin, working with her exhales, her respite between cuts. Pushing her sentimentalism to the side, she takes a seat on the stoop and smacks a fresh pack of cigarettes against the palm of her hand, slipping off the cellophane with unexpectedly shaky fingers. She curses through the tobacco between her lips as the dying lighter struggles to spark against the midnight breeze.

“Here,” a voice startles Quinn and she jumps, fumbling the cigarette into dewy grass. 

“Jesus Christ, Rachel, fuck.” 

Rachel is standing in shadow, her arm outstretched offering a lighter to Quinn. She looks down at the dropped cigarette now wet on the ground, pulls out one of her own and passes it to her as well.

“Sorry.” 

Quinn doesn’t reply but takes the nicotine from Rachel’s hand. “Mm.”

Rachel shifts her feet uncomfortably while Quinn lights her cigarette and passes the lighter back. She sits down carefully next to the other woman, and they don’t look at each other. With drag after drag, smoke fills the silence until Rachel opens up her pack again to light a new cigarette with the butt of the last. At this, Quinn eyes her.

“What, you’re chain-smoking now?”

“I guess,” Rachel shrugs.

Quinn grabs another cigarette, though, and does the same, washing down the pull with a swig from her crystal glass. The alcohol and nicotine are helping to remedy her headache, and soon she’s downed the whiskey. She drops a butt into the bottom of the glass and shifts her whole body to look squarely at the other woman. 

“Why are you still here?” she asks flatly. 

“I don’t know,” Rachel replies, eyes glued to her sneakers. 

“What do you want?” sighs Quinn. 

The alcohol has her chest warm and she’s tired of this roundabout fight. The showrunner will play games with people all day––hell, it’s her job––but when she’s done, she’s done. And at this point, she thinks this bullshit has taken up far too much of her evening.

“I don’t-” 

Quinn suddenly grabs her jaw and forces her face back to her: “Cut the crap, Goldberg. What. Do you. Want?”

Rachel’s dark lashes are brimming with something foreign, and as she meets her gaze Quinn is caught off-guard. She’s not one to scare easily, but the look swimming in Rachel’s eyes shakes a part of her, makes her feel like maybe she’s drowning, too. She frowns and loosens her grip, letting her fingers hover on Rachel’s jawline for another beat before pulling herself away. This is too damn much.

Rachel turns from her once more, running her hands through her hair trying to gather herself. It’s all too much. This conversation was too much when she pulled into the driveway 45 minutes ago and it’s certainly too much now, with her face burning. Where Quinn’s fingers had touched her skin feels like salt on a wound, the all-consuming sensation making it all the more difficult to articulate her thoughts. _ What do you want? _

Quinn watches the storm swirl behind Rachel’s heavy lids, and as if giving voice to her turmoil, the beginnings of thunder purr through the air. A crack of lightning follows and the clouds break both literally and in beads of frustration down Rachel’s cheeks. Rachel swipes at her face with the back of her hand and stands up. She’s not about to keep sitting out here in the damn rain; she’s made a big enough mess of herself as it. 

“I need to go.” 

“No,” Quinn stands, wrapping her fingers tightly around _ Money Dick Power, _“Inside.” 

She wasn’t expecting to continue this interaction with Rachel; she definitely wasn’t expecting to invite her back inside. Realistically though, things rarely went as expected with the two of them. Something has Quinn gripping her wrist, has her realizing for whatever reason, she’s not letting Rachel go home tonight.

Quinn leads her back inside and into the kitchen. She doesn't let go of her arm until she reaches the liquor cabinet where she grabs a new glass for herself and offers one up to Rachel. Rachel shakes her head so Quinn just pours her own drink instead. She sits down on a stool, watching the other woman intently over the rim of her glass. 

Now it’s Rachel’s turn to feel uncomfortable under her stare. She feels exposed and vulnerable sitting under the bright lights, under Quinn’s scrutiny. She would much rather crawl home with her tail between her legs, fuck a random guy and reinvent herself, and forget about tonight and the past 5 years entirely than be sitting right here right now. Or so she tells herself. 

After being dragged back inside though, she knows she hardly has the willpower to try and walk away from Quinn for the third time in one night. So, she changes her mind, stands and decides she’ll have some vodka after all. And it helps, but it also hurts. Her head quiets down and she feels like she’s finally able to think, but at the same time with each glass, she finds she can barely keep her mind on track, keep it off of the woman across from her and instead on the question asked outside: _ What do you want? _

What does Rachel want? Tipsy Rachel wants to run her fingers through Quinn’s hair, to taste her lips, to exchange liquor-flavored breath and-

They sit so long that by the time the silence is broken, they've each had far more drinks than were intended. When they initially came inside Quinn decided she’d wait as long as it took for Rachel to say something first, but when she finally does speak they’re so far into the bottle that Quinn forgets for a moment what her question actually was in the first place.

“I want…” Rachel starts. Each word is spoken slowly, deliberately. “I want you to see me as more than a mess to clean up.”

At this Quinn looks up in surprise.

“You of all people should know by now I talk a lot of shit I don’t mean.”

Rachel meets her eyes and then looks away quickly. An admission is as close to an apology as she may ever get for Quinn’s venom, and she’ll take it. But she knows that’s not the real reason they’re sitting in drunken silence. So she just mutters a concession:

“Yeah.”

“Is that really what you think?” Quinn probes further with a frown.

She shrugs uncomfortably in response to Quinn’s question, keeping her eyes on her glass, considering pouring another to dull the ache in her chest and the burning of her cheeks. She feels childish but can’t find the words. Deep down, under the haze of alcohol and Quinn’s perfume, she knows she makes messes, that she’s taken advantage of her boss’s influence. There's a part of Rachel that wants to break things just to watch Quinn put them back together.

From across the table, the other woman’s eyes needle into her skin and Rachel thinks it hurts a hundred times more than their friendship tattoos did, but maybe that’s just the vodka talking. Maybe she needs to focus more on the _ money _ and _ dick _ and less on the _ power _that she feels every time she and Quinn are together––because really, it’s a friendship tattoo. They’re just friends.

Even so with this consideration, Rachel’s thoughts are racing faster than her drunken mind can keep up with. They’ve never really been just friends, though they’ve never been more. No, Quinn and Rachel are something else entirely––something that transcends boss and employee, something that neither of them can put their finger on yet is painfully aware of. Now, having broken the silence and peace of Quinn’s home, Rachel can’t remember a time she’s held Quinn’s attention so fully. It’s undivided, unwavering, overwhelming. Rachel wonders if they'll be able to put this situation back together, too. 

Quinn sighs and leans forward, resting on an elbow and tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. It’s a slight movement but Rachel’s eyes follow her fingers intently, tracking the motion with a quiet fervor to rival even the best DP in the world.

“Then, Rachel, what is it," she slurs, "that you really want?” Her words are slow and syrupy––a mesmerizing juxtaposition with the cigarette gravel in her voice. The question is dangerous and so much bigger than the small space between them. It’s all too much and at the same time not nearly enough. 

Rachel meets Quinn’s steady eyes to find a challenge, a look that pleads, “_Spit it out, Goldberg.” _

But Rachel still doesn’t have the words. She’s always had a one-track mind and the only thing on it now is––

The feeling of Quinn’s lips. Her impulsive mind lurches her forward resulting in a crash of teeth making Quinn gasp. It’s a sloppy kiss until Rachel gets her bearings, steadying herself with one hand on Quinn’s leg and the other on her back of her neck. She’s surprised when Quinn kisses her back, and when she bites her lip to feels the other woman smile against her mouth it’s better than all of the shared cigarettes that kept her alive through the years as if the nicotine buzz and little stays of Quinn’s designer lipsticks on the orange filters were her sole sustenance.

The kiss has Rachel higher than the best producing of her life, which is saying something. She’s always thought of work as the closest thing she’s had to a home, and producing her favorite activity. It’s something she’s actually good at. She likes the security in knowing she can be useful, valued, talented, but more so perhaps she likes the half-smile Quinn gives her when she looks over her shoulder, or the crackle of her voice in her earpiece: _ “Nice one, Goldie.” _This is entirely different though, a feeling a hundred times better than any pet name or perverted manipulation-induced euphoria.

Rachel’s hands find their way up into Quinn’s hair, to her waist. Fingers slide under the silky pajamas, making Quinn gasp again under her touch. The sound has Rachel kissing her harder, curling her fingers tighter at the nape of her neck. Feeling the _untouchable_ Quinn King shudder under her fingertips is exactly what she wants, exactly what she’s needed. Their breaths exchanged form a push and pull as they kiss, loud and messy in Quinn’s quiet, pristine kitchen––until Quinn puts her palm against Rachel’s chest, pushing her back.

She meets the brunette’s eyes for a moment before her gaze flickers down instead to the space between them.

“Hm?” murmurs Rachel, brow furrowed as she searches for the other woman’s eyes. Quinn’s focus stays downwards, liquor thick and heavy-lidded as she catches her breath.

“Rachel…”

Rachel says nothing, searching her face for her next move, but there is no next move. Chet’s snoring echoes from across the house and cuts through their heaving heartbeats thrumming in the air. 

“Rachel. We can’t- _I_ can’t do this,” Quinn pushes her off, standing and taking a couple of steps away, turning her body away from the other woman. This physical barrier is the only thing that can uphold her resolve, keep her head from spinning out again with a single wanton look from Rachel. 

Rachel is left stunned. She feels her heart drop nine stories, salt starting to blur her vision as she processes Quinn’s words. They hit her like a phonebook square to her back, and any butterflies she’d been harboring in her stomach moments before are promptly killed in the shockwave that rolls through her. She swipes at her cheeks and takes a deep, steadying breath, hoping Quinn can’t tell how hard she’s been hit. 

This is Quinn trying to set a boundary, but Rachel’s never known boundaries. No, to her everything is fair game, whether on set or in her personal relationships. Now, she knows she’s been played herself, pushed, taken the bait that Quinn had dangled so teasingly in front of her nose. And while everything might be fair game, this particular game isn’t fair in the slightest. There are no rules, no laws, just dirty low blows from clenched fists and poison from behind clenched teeth. So, she thinks to herself that the embarrassment burning on her skin might just be passed off as blush from their kiss if she’s lucky––if she can play this right.

Quite frankly, Quinn is expecting tears at this rejection, for Rachel to yell at her maybe, to curse her out and slam the door as she did earlier. And she knows she would deserve it, given how she’s essentially gotten Rachel drunk, pushed her to her limit, then pushed a little more. The reaction would sting, a little, but Quinn would never let on; she’s used to Rachel blowing up. It’s nothing she hasn’t seen before. As she pinches the bridge of her nose and takes a deep breath, what she doesn’t expect is for Rachel to stride confidently towards her and close the gap, put her hands on her waist, and turn her back around so they’re face to face again. She’s met with the darkest bedroom eyes Rachel can muster.

The brunette is vying for leverage, searching Quinn’s surprised expression for something to jab into her ribcage and twist.

“Really?” she purrs and Quinn recognizes her tone as the same one she uses on contestants. Paired with a doe-eyed, sugary, evil arch of the eyebrow kind of smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth it’s near-lethal. Just because Quinn has seen it before, though, doesn’t mean she’s immune when it’s she who’s in the line of fire––especially not here, drunk and pressed up so close to Rachel she can feel her chest rising and falling with each excruciating second.

“You _ really _ can’t do this?” Rachel pushes. She's determined to break her opponent down, to get the reaction she deserves. She can tell she almost has the upper hand now, something she’s rarely experienced in their relationship. She turns her charms on full blast with a flutter of dark eyelashes, a hand running up Quinn’s back, making her shiver.

Quinn doesn’t know what to do with this; her head is swimming and she can’t read the situation anymore. She looks back at Rachel, dazed. She’s never been one to be at a loss for words, always ready with a snappy comeback––especially with Rachel––but all the norms have gone out the window at this point, washed away with the rain, across the pavement, rushing down the storm drain. This is uncharted territory, a dynamic they’ve never broached. All she can do is stutter:

“I- We…” 

“Come on, Quinn…” 

A hand finds its way under her shirt again, and having Rachel’s fingers dancing feather-light on her bare skin has Quinn weak in the knees, unable to tear her eyes from the other woman’s lips as she speaks. The tables have turned so quickly, she feels like the ground is spinning under her feet. 

“Rach...” she rasps, and it’s so quiet Rachel stomps right over her protest, over her spine up and down. 

“You can’t tell me you don’t want this, too,” she pulls her closer, kisses her neck so softly Quinn can’t take it. She pushes Rachel off, harder this time. 

“Fuck, Rachel, STOP.” 

Rachel stumbles back, rolls her eyes up to the ceiling and with a wry half-laugh she runs her hands through her hair. She looks at Quinn, who’s straightening her shirt. Quinn looks back at her with a glare.

“What the fuck, Goldberg?” she spits, and Rachel almost flinches at the sudden wall in her face, at the way “Rachel” is no longer in Quinn’s vocabulary. Only “Goldberg” now, a moniker that lets her know the 30 layers of ice she’d taken years to methodically thaw Quinn out of have all refrozen in one swift instant.

“What the fuck? What the fuck YOURSELF,” Rachel counters with a scowl, “Seriously; you know, you talk a big game, Quinn. You act like you’re so big and bad, like you’re not scared of anything. But you’re not shit. You’re a fucking coward.”

Quinn opens her mouth to rebut but doesn’t know what to say. She’s the one smacked upside the face this time with Rachel’s accusation. Before she can gather a coherent barb to sling back at the other woman, Rachel is halfway out the door. All at once, it's slammed behind her and Quinn is left alone with two empty glasses and a ringing in her ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Kingsgold Christmas yall


	3. Something Old, Something New

The sun beating down on Rachel’s back has her wiping sweat from her brow and longing for a disappointingly lukewarm water bottle from craft services. South Africa has been good to her, save for sunburns and mosquitoes. Sure, taking on this project meant taking a pay cut as well as a step backward in production, but when her title was showrunner she hadn’t exactly had access to its full power anyway, and the paycheck doesn’t feel so bad when it’s steeped in humanitarian work, philanthropic enough to have her white-savior heart happy when she crawls into bed at night. 

Stepping away from the monitors of the day’s video village, Rachel digs her buzzing phone out of her back pocket. Quinn King is the last name she expects to see glowing at her from the screen. She stares back, stunned until a PA calls her name and she’s shaken back out from the clutches of the Los Angeles devil. She declines the call and shoves it back into her jeans.

\--

Checking her notifications at wrap Rachel finds not only another missed call but a text that reads “_ Call me _ .” Not a hello, not a question, just a demand. Classic Quinn. There’s no voicemail either; Quinn doesn’t leave them if she can help it. Rachel remembers how her boss would glare at her phone with disdain after someone didn’t pick up: _ “If you can’t be bothered to answer your damn phone I can’t be bothered to leave a fucking voicemail.” _The comment would be inevitably followed by a swig of gin before returning her attention to the paperwork on her desk or the walkie on her hip.

Rachel’s fingers dance over her contact name, torn between the old and the new. Though she tries to tell herself Quinn is her past, a bridge burned with the same finality as the ashes of Everlasting, her hesitation to delete the message and relegate Quinn to chapter now closed says otherwise. Her curiosity and the pull in her gut get the better of her and before she can think better of it, she’s pressing the ringing device to her ear.

“Hello? Rachel?” Quinn’s voice crackles through the phone. It’s distorted, grainy, still sends chills down her spine. 

“Quinn,” she exhales, and it’s not so much a greeting as it is a statement, a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. 

“Took you long enough to get back to me,” Quinn quips. No formalities here. “Dinner––Friday night. I need to talk to you,” she says, straight to the point as always. Rachel frowns as she continues. “We’ve got a new show, you’re gonna love it.” 

“I can’t,” she replies, confused. “Quinn, I already _ have-” _

“Of course you can,” Quinn bulldozes right past her, “as if you have something better going on. Trust me, Goldberg, you want in on this.” The cocky statement has Rachel taken aback. Who is Quinn to be assuming Rachel wants in on anything involving her? She takes a breath before trying to explain once more:

“No, really, I can’t-” 

“Bullshit. I’ll see you at 9:30 Friday. The Argyle.”

With that Quinn hangs up the phone. A woman of few words (though many expletives) she purposefully keeps the conversation as short as possible. She doesn’t want to leave any room for Rachel to dissent. She needs this meeting. She needs Rachel on her side for this project, needs to just _ see _ Rachel. Putting her phone down, she leans back in her chair and runs a hand through her hair.  
  


She needs closure. She needs absolution. She needs, maybe, to apologize.

Until now, Rachel’s last words to her had been calling her a coward, slamming her front door. They’ve haunted her in a way few other things do. Career derelictions––like Mary––don’t keep her up at night, nor do ex-lovers, no matter how many times they call. And neither does Rachel, most of the time. There have been some nights though, especially recently, where she simply can’t get comfortable in her thousand-thread-count sheets.

One of these nights in particular, sodden with liquor, she had remembered with slicing, sharp clarity the image of Rachel sat across from her, perched atop the barstool in her kitchen. Alone in the house, she couldn’t shake the memory of her foggy eyes and consequent kiss. That memory didn’t bother her, per se; what gets to her is remembering the sparring that had followed. Replaying the fight she had paced back and forth in her kitchen that night, burning a rut into the tile, marring the scene of the crime. 

She was _Quinn King._ This means she had been called every name in the book--just never a coward. Usually, names rolled right off her back like smoke off her tongue. "Bitch" was a compliment to her ears. This one, "_coward,"_ has been hurting her though. It burns and it refuses to heal. Every time the wound starts to maybe close up and scab over, something picks it off and opens it right back up again with the sting of salt, unshed tears. It hasn’t healed because she knows Rachel was right. The only thing that truly _ scares _ Quinn is losing the realest relationship she’s ever had. In trying to preserve it, though, she’d done just that. She thought it would be too much for them, that it would push their relationship over a cliff and into the abyss they’ve been seemingly teetering on the edge of for years. Now there was no more “them.” 

By the time she had finished her drink that sleepless night, bitter reminiscence on her tongue, she was left acutely aware of this fact and without any good plans yet to get Rachel back in her orbit. It had been two months, then, since she’d spent any time her own kitchen, two months since Rachel had slammed the door. Frustration sparking through her body, Quinn stopped pacing and shoved the small table over, glass top shattering. The next morning she ordered a new table and had the countertops redone for good measure, to match. No matter how much she's changed the scene in front of her, though, that night with Rachel lingers still. The memory has been exhausting her for months, and she’s tired of sitting down each day with a disquiet mind that only resides in the past––but they have dinner on Friday. Dinner will move things forward.

\--

After talking to Quinn, or rather after Quinn talking _ at _her, Rachel can’t sleep either. She tosses and turns for hours, waves of anger rushing in and waking her each time she’s about to finally nod off. Quinn isn’t stupid, so why the hell would she ask Rachel to dinner in LA? Even if she had been in the states, she wouldn’t have come running like a dog at the click of Quinn’s fingers. They’re past that. They haven’t even talked in months. It’s 2 AM in Cape Town––4 PM in California. She texts Quinn, reiterates: 

_ “I really can’t see you. I’m not even in LA.” _

No more than that; she doesn’t need details, doesn’t _ deserve _them, Rachel thinks. That’s that. She puts the phone face-down and rolls over. The text doesn’t calm her, though. Another 15 minutes and she’s up, stuffing her sneakers on and slipping out of her hotel room. She takes the stairs down the 3 flights, hoping the steps might help tire her out. As she skulks through the lobby, the doorman asks where she’s going so late. He’s nice, albeit nosey. In reply, Rachel simply holds up her cigarettes––the last of her Marlboros from the states. She’s been doing her best to make the couple packs she’d brought last, but only one singular smoke rattles around in the carton now. 

“It’s not safe for women to walk alone so late,” the doorman calls out.

“Then I’ll come with,” someone replies from the sitting area of the lobby. Rachel bristles, frowns, and turns around. She wasn’t welcoming an escort. The man stands up––it’s Mark from her locations team. It’s too late to put up a fight so she just waves him over. The guy is harmless. He’s a couple of years younger than her, an inch shorter than her, with kind eyes and a clean beard. Upon their first meeting during preproduction she had thought about it, thought about him once or twice. When she realized he reminded her of Jeremy, though, she wrote it off. She doesn’t need anything reminding her of her time on Everlasting. 

Outside it’s warm, but a persistent breeze brings a chill up Rachel’s spine. She wraps one arm around her chest pulling her ratty sweatshirt closed, and brings the other to her mouth, taking a long drag. She and Mark stand against the building in silence until Rachel breaks first. 

“You didn’t have to come out with me.”

“Safety in numbers. Besides, I needed some air too. I couldn’t stand being cooped up in the room tonight.” He’s leaning against the brick with his hands stuffed in his pockets, one foot tucked against the wall. Rachel considers him here, again, and at 2 AM she thinks that maybe a little Jeremy might not be so bad.

“Why’re you up so late?” she questions.

“My sleep has been out of whack since the first night. Never fully recovered from the jet-lag, I guess.”

Rachel just hums in reply. 

“What about you? What’s keeping you up?” Mark continues as Rachel side-eyes him. 

“Probably the same thing.”

Another 2 minutes of silence and Rachel goes for a second cigarette only to remember she’s fresh out.

“Shit,” she sighs. 

“Smoking is bad for you,” Mark says, and before Rachel can shoot him an eye-roll she realizes he’s offering his own pack. She accepts and hums a thank you through the cigarette between her lips, digging back in her pockets for her lighter.

“Here,” he says, leaning over and lighting it for her before she can protest. She’s surprised, makes brief eye contact across the flame and his hands, then blinks away from him. A couple clouds of smoke rise from their mouths as he lights his own, and Rachel breaks out with a coughing fit. 

“Fuck, Jesus,” she chokes, “these suck.” 

“I know,” he cringes, “I haven’t found a decent brand here.”

“Well, thanks,” she repeats, “if there’s one thing I love it’s an enabler.” At this Mark laughs, and it’s hearty, warm, familiar. Rachel smiles and the breeze picks up, flicking her hair into her eyes. She shivers, wraps her sweatshirt tighter, but she’s not done with her cigarette yet. Mark shrugs off his coat and places it on her shoulders. This, and the light, are the most intimate interactions she’s had in months. When they head inside a few minutes later, up the elevator to the same floor, Rachel decides she doesn’t want to go back to her room alone. 

“Wanna come in?” 

\--

“Fucking _ South Africa?!” _After being rejected again by Rachel, Quinn’s interest was piqued. She made a few calls to her and Rachel’s mutual contacts, and with some Instagram snooping found the documentary team she was working on. She had been sure Rachel would be waiting for her at the restaurant on Friday night but clearly she was going to make things difficult. Typical, classic, same old Goldberg. She clicks around on her computer, then sends an email off with a swoosh. 

To: rach.goldberg91@gmail.com  
From: qu.king@outlook.com

Re: Fwd: Expedia Flight Purchase Confirmation - Cape Town to Los Angeles (LAX) - Friday, Feb 22 - (Itinerary # 7479263340163)

Subject:  
_ Reconsider. See you Friday. _

_ QK_

A phone call rings through as she clicks send. 

“Hey, I’m working on it,” she picks up.

_ “You need to work on your phone etiquette; most people would say _ hello _ .” _

“Yeah hi, hello, did you want me to kiss your balls as well as your ass?” 

_ “Okay, Quinn. Is this producer of yours onboard yet? She signs on Friday?” _

“I said I’m working on it. She’ll sign. Don’t worry about it.”

_ “I hope so, for your sake. You know we can’t get this moving if you’re the only name on the ticket. You may have had a good run with that love show but we need more than that.” _

“Yeah, I know. She’ll sign. Goodbye, Richard.” 

Quinn hangs up and closes her laptop with a sigh. This extra hurdle is the last thing she needs to deal with in getting Rachel back. The new deal she’s pitching won’t go through without a lead producer at the helm, someone the network can hold accountable besides Quinn, whose last project might have had sky-high ratings but ultimately went down in flames. While Rachel was involved in Everlasting, too, her name had gained some notoriety after the finale, whereas Quinn’s industry capital had just taken a hit. Her career reputation was one of the few things she held dear, so to have that questioned by the network boys-club felt like salt to the wound. Rachel was her only answer––the only person she could see herself creating the show with. Quinn needs her dragon, and so purchasing her a flight out to the LA meeting is a necessary and justifiable expense. 

After all, Quinn was the one who said her girl was worth _ five _ crashed Ferraris. 

_ \-- _

“Oh my god,” Rachel groans. It’s 5:30 AM and the room is still dark. After turning off her aggressive iPhone alarm she checked her email, finding a familiar address she hasn’t seen in her inbox since the last callsheet for the Everlasting finale. 

“Regretting this already?” Mark asks, rolling over beside her. She’d forgotten he was even there.

“No, not you,” she mutters, frown setting as she focuses on her phone. She turns the brightness up as if this will make it make any more sense. 

“You okay? What’s up?” Mark sits up, puts a hand on Rachel’s back. 

“It’s nothing,” Rachel mumbles, deleting the email. She turns back to Mark and plants a kiss, “I’m going to take a shower.” 

She pads across the room to the bathroom, locks the door behind her. She turns the water on and leans her elbows on the counter, rubbing her face as she looks the mirror. Her reflection stares back, eyes watery and red. It’s a truth she doesn’t want to deal with, and as the steam builds and obscures her image she squashes out the butterflies in her gut. She’s not under Quinn’s thumb anymore. Rachel wonders how Quinn seems to have missed that memo when she slammed her front door––how much clearer could she be? It’s a dirty feeling these butterflies are creating in her stomach, offensive and nauseating. The _ audacity _of Quinn throwing a first-class flight at her like money, as if somehow that would make her more apt to come at her beck and call. If she had wanted a sugar daddy there were much more enticing options available to her, and less complicated too. Her mind is running far too quickly for this early in the morning, and without coffee.

A clatter from the other room distracts her from her indignation. Rachel straightens up and opens the door, the lock clicking free with the turn of the handle. Mark is struggling with the coffee maker, might have even broken it. He turns around to give a sheepish smile. She smirks and beckons him into the bathroom. 

“You good?” he tries to ask between kisses. Rachel just pushes him backwards into the shower, welcoming the hot water washing Quinn out of her hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OBVIOUSLY Mark is just a guy for Rachel to fuck in order to deal with (or avoid dealing with, rather,) her feelings about Quinn. Don't even worry about him. As I said, he's harmless. Chapter 4 is gonna be a wild one, though. Y'all stay tuned.


	4. Death of a Saleswoman

It’s been a week since Quinn tried to summon Rachel back to California, and just 36 hours since she had sat at the bar for 40 minutes, waiting for a dragon who never showed. In that time she’d been sent drinks from not one, but two separate suitors, spurned their advances, and fielded a stressful call from Richard:  _ “Yes, I’ll handle it,  _ Dick _ ,”  _ she snapped, slapping a crisp 20 on the bar and heading for the door.

Now, she steps out of the cab, onto Rachel’s set. She hikes her sunglasses up above her bangs, scanning the people around for her prey. 

_ “Rachel! _ ” 

The brunette stops in her tracks. She waves the PA she was talking to away, turning to find Quinn, standing there looking all sorts of uncomfortable with her designer ensemble, heels shining a curious juxtaposition with the dusty earth below. It’s like digging Rachel out of the mud in Washington all over again.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“Well hello to you too,” Quinn quips, and feigns normalcy, “I said I needed to see you.”

“How did you even, like, find me?”

“Did you think you were hiding?” scoffs Quinn, “You’re not exactly hard to find. You might be producing different shit but we still work in the same circles.” 

After blowing Quinn off Rachel expected an angry phonecall maybe, but not her traveling halfway across the world to stare her down in the middle of her fucking workday. It was invasive, really.

“You couldn’t have, I don’t know, called?” Rachel asks, exasperated. 

“You couldn’t have come to dinner?” Quinn counters. Rachel holds her stony gaze. Her tone is steady, but Quinn King doesn’t  _ get  _ stood up. Rachel knows better, knows that she’s pissed. 

“No, Quinn, I couldn’t have,” she glares, “if you haven’t noticed, I’m a little busy around here.” She gestures to the bustling set around her, emphasizing the shooed PA standing 15 feet away waiting awkwardly for continued instructions. 

“Clearly, busy working on some boring bullshit second-rate production” Quinn bites back, “So here I am. We need to talk.” 

Rachel kind of laughs at this, rolls her eyes and fixes her ponytail. Quinn’s eyes trail her hands. Her dark hair’s gotten longer, falling to the middle of her back even when tied up. The sun has done some kind of south-of-the-equator magic for her skin, too. She’s looking less like a ghost and more like an actual (healthy?) person. For half a second she feels guilty for even being here.

“We have nothing to talk about, but maybe you forgot; I don’t work for you anymore.”

“That’s exactly why I’m here in the middle of buttfuck nowhere Africa-” 

“Okay, first of all, I don’t  _ want _ to work for you, and second of all, Cape Town actually has like one of the most lucrative economies in the country-” Rachel interrupts, holding up a finger in typical righteous indignation. Quinn wonders if she’s ever going to fall off that high fucking horse.

“Ugh, stop with the social activist crap,” Quinn sneers, interrupting her right back with a wave of her hand.

“Look, I  _ really _ appreciate you coming all the way down here and all,” Rachel speaks low syrupy sweet sarcasm, “but I  _ really  _ don’t have time for this right now.” 

She turns to walk away but Quinn grasps for her wrist, talons wrapping around a sunburn. Rachel meets her with a new flash of anger. The sting of her sunburn shouldn’t hurt as bad as it does, but Quinn’s fingers bring out something raw, something Rachel has been desperately holding down beneath the surface, bubbling and clamoring to breach. With the surface tension freshly broken, she starts to yank her arm from her grasp but stops when she sees Quinn’s surprised gaze has fallen to her wrist. There is no more  _ Money, Dick, Power.  _ Instead, a black rectangle; just a plain, rudimentary coverup. 

Truthfully, Rachel had shown up to the tattoo parlor with a plan and everything, a gallery of reference photos––floral coverups glinting from behind her ever-cracked screen. When she sat down on the bench, though, it wasn’t right. No matter what she tried to tell herself, nothing beautiful had ever come from that mantra, from Quinn. She wasn’t left with growth or elegance. There was no fertile earth, leaves, or petals, just a black hole in her chest that liquor could only numb and work might distract from, but just until wrap. When the meetings ended and she sat down in her room with nothing but suffocating thoughts, a pretty new tattoo just didn’t fit there on her skin. That space had been claimed, tarnished, and bastardized beyond redemption. So, she blackened it, colored a craterous void on her wrist. Quinn’s eyes needling on it now feel like the buzzing ink all over again, only a hundred times worse. 

Quinn lets go and pulls her own arm back, turned pointedly inward so her own tattoo doesn’t show. She meets Rachel’s eyes once more, different this time: asking, not demanding. 

“Rachel,” she sighs, but she won’t beg, won’t say that 6-letter word _ . _

Rachel takes a deep breath and finally nods: “Give me your phone.” Quinn obeys and hands it over and watches as Rachel types a few words and hands it back.

“I can do a drink after wrap tonight. Here. Nine o’clock.”

“Do you have any idea how jet-lagged I am?” Quinn snaps, but Rachel just stares back at her until she gives a rare, albeit snarky concession: “Okay, whatever, fine, have it your way, Goldberg. Nine o’clock it is.”

“Alright,” Rachel claps her hands in fake cheer, “Right now though? I’m going to need you to get the hell off my set.” She pulls her shades back down and walks away. 

\--

At 9:15 Rachel saunters into the restaurant she’d chosen: a casual spot serving local comfort food. It’s not her favorite place to eat, no, she doesn’t want to chance bringing any of Quinn’s baggage to her usual choice. This place, in contrast, is far more lowkey and grungier, bringing in a late-night crowd for greasy appetizers and cheap beer. It’s the exact kind of place Quinn King would never be caught dead in, if not for Rachel’s demand. 

It takes her only a minute to locate the other woman, perched uncomfortably in a round, corner booth. The green upholstery is tattered at the edges and the scratched tabletop wobbles if leaned on. Her legs are crossed, ankle twisting in nervous circles. Rachel almost laughs at the sight, the bigshot so far out of her comfort zone, waiting for someone else rather than keeping them waiting on her. Even in uniform heels and blazer, she looks more disheveled than Rachel expects, with circles under her eyes, but maybe that’s just from the hanging orange light above her. It had been a long day of travel and jet-lag, sure, but these bags look a little more permanent. She wants to stand there a minute and just enjoy the scene in front of her, watching Quinn squirm. Quinn had texted Rachel at 9:05, to which there was no response. From the way Quinn had looked at her on set today, she knew she’d wait as long as Rachel wanted. After savoring this for a minute she heads over and slides into the booth, shrugging off her jacket and folding it beside her.

“You took your time,” says Quinn, her attitude only thinly veiling a small breath of relief. 

“We wrapped a little late,” Rachel replies, but her voice isn’t apologetic, it’s even. They sit for a moment in silence, unsure of where to start until the server comes to take their drinks.

“I’ll have an IPA,” starts Rachel, and she doesn’t miss a beat. Quinn tries to order Grey Goose on the rocks as Rachel shakes her head and the server explains they don’t have a full bar.

“Um, I’ll just have the same as her then,” Quinn orders with a frown. The server nods and quickly returns with the two beers. 

Quinn takes a sip and fails to conceal her grimace. Rachel, on the other hand, looks comfortable here. She fits into this scene. For that, Quinn is a little envious. She wishes, sometimes, that she could fill her own voids with dive bars and cheap drinks, polyester ambiance and painful, average normalcy. Then again, recalling the way the red bottoms of her Louboutins stuck to the floorboards with each step made the hairs on her arms stand up and her dry lips crave a drink. A real drink––not this piss-colored blue-collar crap. She feels like she’s back in college. The only thing strong enough to wash the taste of a bad day from her mouth these days is vodka. Top shelf. 

“I’ve never seen you drink beer,” Rachel notes, watching her mouth pucker. Quinn huffs quietly and takes a larger gulp, trying to man up for at least a much-needed buzz.

“I’ve never seen you so dead set on avoiding me,” she replies. The weight of the comment is sudden and sharp, surprising them both. Rachel furrows her brow.

“Quinn,” she starts slowly, “don’t flatter yourself. Avoiding you? You can’t seriously have expected me to drop everything for you, for a show I don’t know shit about. Like, we haven’t even talked in six months.” 

She watches Quinn’s eyes drop a little, mouth tightening into a fine line. Said so plainly, the older woman realizes these words to be true. In her defense, though, when has Rachel ever  _ not  _ come running at the snap of her fingers? Rachel watches this train of thought roll through and almost feels sorry for Quinn. She wonders if she doesn’t have anyone else to boss around beside her. 

“Well, we’re talking now,” Quinn says.

“Then don’t blow it. Pitch me.” 

Quinn spends the next hour or so giving Rachel her best pitch––as well as she can on only 5 hours of sleep. She warms up to the beer, moreso warming to the comforting feeling in her chest with each round. By the time she’s done essentially reciting the entire early-stage production bible, they’re both feeling the effects. 

“So that’s it!” Quinn grins. She’s gained confidence. “You can’t tell me you don’t love it.” She chuckles a little into her drink, and Rachel nods.

“You’re right, fine, it’s genius,” she agrees, “I shouldn’t be surprised.” Quinn gives a little bow, smiling at Rachel’s first allotted compliment. She’s happy with the way the night is going so far; she’s certainly done her homework in preparation for selling this to Rachel, and knew all the right things to say. If there’s one person she knows, really gets, it’s Rachel. 

“So you want me on as a producer, or…?” the brunette asks. The excitement of a good pitch has her guard lower than it’s been in days, and she knows this, somewhere under the beer in her gut. 

“Supervising producer or something, whatever the fuck, the title is flexible; we’ll work something out,” Quinn flicks her hand dismissively, “it’s all formalities anyway.” 

Rachel mulls this over with another swig. She'd rather not go back to being Quinn's grunt––what happened to that deal she'd been offered two years ago? Full partner at Quinn's hypothetical production company? She guesses that's too far gone now. Maybe it can be discussed later. The more pressing question on her chest is not one of her title, but of their relationship.

“And you think it’s a good idea?” she asks as Quinn cocks her head, “Us? Working together again?” Rachel traces the rim of her glass and lowers her voice. Quinn feels her skin starting to flush and does her best to will it away.

“I think that I’ve never made television half as good as the shit we made together,” Quinn says, and it’s the truth. She’s good, but so is Rachel. Maybe even better, but she would never give her that. Rachel doesn’t reply so Quinn continues, “Come on, Goldie. You and me, just like old times.” 

“Old times weren’t so good,” Rachel counters, raising a brow, inviting her to dispute this, knowing she can’t. “You know, I’m happy here, Quinn. I’m doing what I’ve always wanted.”

“But you’re bored,” Quinn interjects, “I can tell. It might make your little heart happy but this shit isn’t exciting. You want more.”

“Don’t do that. Don’t tell me what I feel.”

“I’m right though; I saw that fucked up little twinkle in your eye when I told you about my new show–– _ our  _ new show,” she pushes, “your talents are wasted here.”

“What ‘talents’ Quinn? Lying? Manipulation? Ever think that just maybe I don’t actually wanna be fucked up, to ruin people’s lives? I don’t do that shit here, and I’m not your dragon anymore,” Rachel spits, fiery emphasis on ‘dragon.’

“Rachel,” Quinn warns, her voice firm, and it reminds her of countless nights in her office, sordid silence behind frosted glass doors. Rachel stares her down, trying hard to hold her ground. It feels like a bad idea, she  _ knows  _ this is bad, but the visceral pull on her producer heartstrings is enough for her not to trust her tongue, anticipating its betrayal of her integrity. So instead she stays quiet. Until-

That 6-letter word:  _ “Please.” _

Rachel downs the last of her drink, trying to remember the last time she’s heard this syllable from Quinn’s lips, if ever.

“Look, I won’t even be back in Los Angeles for another two months, so-”

“That’s fine. It’s still early stages, we wouldn’t even start shooting until June,” Quinn replies all too quickly. “And you can be involved in preproduction long-distance until you’re back.” Her phone lights up and buzzes on the table, a text from Richard. Rachel’s eyes follow curiously as she deletes the notification and clicks the screen back to black. The real-world LA stressor buzzing into their booth has Quinn reminded again of the gravity of this conversation. The number of times her career has hinged on Rachel’s unhinged ass is dizzying. 

“I need you,” she states, a quiet utterance, and it’s work, it’s the deal, but it’s also something else. It’s a manipulation, it’s a last-ditch effort to get Rachel back. It’s all of this, and at the same time, it’s the truth. She places her hand on Rachel’s, and the electricity is too much so Rachel pulls away. She knows this move from a producer’s standpoint; getting flirty, touchy, eye contact; it’s manipulation 101. 

That being said, she also knows what it sounds like when Quinn chokes out something she doesn’t want to say. She knows what Quinn’s truth sounds like, and it’s a high she used to live for. Rachel would chase those rare moments in the control room late at night, or in Quinn’s office, where she would get just a little bit vulnerable, letting one single layer of ice thaw at a time, for Rachel. Only for Rachel. It was what she’d been after that last night she saw her, stripped-down and real enough for a vodka-saturated kiss. The memory sends a shiver through her body, and she shakes her head as if that will clear things up. Recalling the rejection stings and ignites a fresh fire in her chest––vindictive and hungry.

“I don’t know, Quinn. I’m not convinced.” 

“What do you mean?” Quinn frowns, tilting her head like a dog.

“I  _ said, _ I’m not sold. I don’t believe you. I need more,” Rachel repeats, leaning back away from the table and crossing her arms. They’d somehow slowly gotten too close, leaning in with each sentence until Rachel swore she could hear Quinn’s breath and they were sitting closer to side-by-side in the round seat than across from each other. The reclaimed distance feels good, like she has some of her power back. 

“Jesus, Rach, that’s all I have. What more do you want?” Quinn retorts, eyeing her warily. 

“If you want me? Prove it.” Rachel leans in again and puts a hand on Quinn’s folded arms. “I’m sold on the show. I’m just not sold on you.” Quinn raises a brow and moves a hand to Rachel’s leg, tentatively at first. 

“I can be very convincing,” she says, downing her drink as Rachel entertains a smile finally, “but I’m tired of talking. Is there anywhere to dance in this shithole town?” Rachel fully laughs at this.

“Calm down Miss LA, it’s South Africa. You dance everywhere. I think there’s a club down the street,” she replies, as Quinn starts to stand up, pulling Rachel out the door.


	5. Brick and Mortar

Strobe lights have Quinn losing track of Rachel not even 20 steps into the club, and as she spins around looking for her partner she feels a hand on her waist. She steps into it at first, thinking Rachel is guiding her back, but turns around to find a tall, handsome man with a tight beard. He grins at her, flashing dazzling teeth before she pushes him back, shaking her head ‘no.’ She spots Rachel across the room, already picking up two drinks from the bar and heading back her way. She meets her halfway across the floor and Rachel hands her her usual vodka. Thank God. Quinn gulps it down like it’s water after a month in the Sahara.

“Ugh, god, thank you,” she sets the glass down and wipes her mouth with her thumb. Rachel’s eyes linger on her lips. “The guys here are a different breed, huh?” she continues, as Rachel glances over her shoulder to the bold suitor, still looking their way. 

“Him?” she asks as Quinn rolls her eyes.

“Mhm.”

“Chet?” Rachel asks, reminded suddenly of Quinn’s life back in LA. The one word asks a hundred questions.

“I left the limp-dicked asshole,” Quinn answers with a theatrical gag.

Rachel nods and gestures to the man behind Quinn. “I mean, he’s cute,” she baits, “you interested?”

“Don’t be an idiot,” she scoffs, “I didn’t fly halfway across the world for the men.” She holds Rachel’s challenging stare and takes her wrist, always her wrist, as if her fingers can uncover the buried tattoo––and leads her through the crowd to the dance floor. 

Quinn is dead on her feet at this point, exhausted beyond her usual limits, but the music is loud, the vodka has given her some new life, and, most importantly, she’s still on a mission. The bass thrums through the air and Rachel has taken her hair out of its ponytail, dark waves cascading over her shoulders and down her back. She sways her hips back and forth, arms in the air trying to play things cool, trying to focus on the music instead of the mere foot of space between her and the other woman.

Quinn has other plans. She’s been aching to tangle her fingers in the nape of Rachel’s neck and takes full advantage of the situation now to do just that, pulling her closer as they dance. This is the best business meeting she’s ever had. Her usual forms of persuasion aren’t so… physical. These are wiles she hasn’t put to use since working Chet, and she has to admit they’re much more enjoyable when focused on Rachel. It’s dirty, but not in the slimy way with fake laughs and fluttering eyelashes. No, this is genuine. Rachel is real.

As Quinn closes the gap, Rachel closes her eyes and allows her hands to wander up and down her sides, fingers splayed wide as if trying to take in as much of her body as possible, as though she might disappear at any moment. The music is loud enough to rattle any hesitation from her head, leaving it empty and clear, prime real estate on her frontal lobe reserved for Quinn and Quinn only. She flips her around so they’re grinding, and Quinn leans her head back so her hot breath reaches Rachel’s ear.

“I couldn’t care less about these dumbfuck men,” she growls, and Rachel’s grip tightens on her hips. “Do you know why I’m here?” 

“Tell me again,” Rachel demands, raking her nails up Quinn’s sides, sending shivers through her. She’s dying to hear the sultry words from Quinn’s lips.

“I flew halfway around the world for  _ you _ ,” she replies, giving Rachel exactly what she wants as she guides Rachel’s hands down her hips to the hem of her skirt. 

“That’s what I thought,” Rachel murmurs, nipping at her ear. “What else will you do for me?” Quinn turns back to face her, drapes her arms around Rachel’s neck and leans in so close the only air between them is that of exhale. 

“Why don’t you take me home and find out.” 

Outside the club, Quinn rounds a corner to stand under a yellow streetlamp. The hue bounces off her sharp features, making her eyes look darker, her skin more sallow. Her being here hasn’t felt real, not really, especially not the last few hours. On the sidewalk, though, out from under the strobing lights, Rachel examines her and wonders what‘s prompted these extreme measures. Quinn had gone to great lengths for her before, of course, but that was  _ before.  _ Rachel isn’t mad enough to think she came all this way just because she missed her. If that was the case? It’s pathetic. Pathetic just like the flutters in her stomach with each sidelong glance. 

Quinn lights a cigarette and offers another to her, but Rachel declines; her mouth is already too dry. As she watches the smoke float off Quinn’s lips and smells the tobacco, though, she changes her mind. It’s their shared brand, one constant similarity even when apart. No country in the world makes cancer quite as sweet as the US, Rachel thinks. She takes a step closer to Quinn, rests a delicate hand on her waist, and carefully plucks the nicotine from her fingers. Quinn’s eyes are green again, up close. For the moment, maybe it doesn’t matter why she’s really here. She takes a long drag and hands it back to Quinn, who raises a brow and offers up the pack again.

“No, that’s okay. I just wanted yours,” Rachel says, enjoying the taste on her tongue. 

“Suit yourself,” says Quinn with a shrug. They haven’t even finished the first cigarette as Rachel’s UberX pulls up in record time. 

“This is us,” Rachel hastily stuffs her phone in her pocket and flicks the butt into the storm drain. 

The music in the car is upbeat––something with horns. They fall into the backseat and Quinn immediately swings her legs over Rachel’s lap. The power move has Rachel dragging her nails over her skin, which in turn has Quinn rocking forward for a bloodthirsty collision. It’s far from perfect, but it’s long overdue. Before she can readjust for a better kiss Rachel pulls away all too quickly. The sudden absence catches her off guard and she’s still leaning forward with an eager tumble, embarrassingly catching herself with a hand on Rachel’s chest. She traces her collarbones to her shoulders, around her neck, running her hands through tangled hair as Rachel turns her attention away for a single frustrating beat, to the driver.

“Could you please change the station?” Rachel asks, and the new song is slower. She returns her gaze to Quinn, who’s staring with hungry eyes. The tempo changes things. Rachel brings her hand up to cup Quinn’s face, grazing over the hollow of her cheek. She just lingers there until the buzzing of her skin is excruciating, too much for Quinn to stand, lurching in for another kiss. This time it’s not aggressive, but desperate. Rachel flattens her palm against Quinn’s chest where she can feel her heart beating hard and fast. She reaches lower, untucks her shirt and slides her hand up over warm skin, playing at the wire of her bra and savoring the way her breathing hitches at each touch.

“Rachel,” she rasps, a ragged inhale. The air smells like her: luxurious and unattainable and high maintenance. That usual flawless exterior is stripped away now, though. Rachel pulls back to get a better look at her, illuminated only in fleeting stripes from passing cars and lights outside. Her dark hair is mussed and piecey, hairspray from a day ago long lost its hold. Flecks of old mascara have fallen to her cheeks and her lipstick smudged and messy. Rachel’s sure she shares half the makeup on her own face by now. As she takes in the sight in front of her––rather halfway on top of her––Quinn tries to catch her own breath. Her chest heaves as if nearing the end of a marathon and she  _ hopes _ she’s nearing the end of this race. Her fingers trail over Rachel’s body, scratching bitterly at the collar of her cotton t-shirt, her belt loops. She’s maddeningly inaccessible, stubborn layers of fabric acting as an infuriating chastity belt keeping her skin locked away from Quinn’s touch. It’s a stark contrast with her own ensemble, satin blouse loose and skirt hiking up higher with each passing minute.

“We’re almost there,” Rachel murmurs over Quinn’s thumb, manicure now hovering at her jaw. It’s a move she’s pulled before, but usually with anger, never like this. This time, with her fingers floating over her lips, Rachel takes her thumb in her mouth, tastes her sweet tobacco-stained skin, and Quinn’s eyes grow wide. It’s just for a second, and as Rachel pulls her lips away to turn and look out the window, Quinn’s never wanted anything more. 

“Right here is fine,” Rachel says to the driver, and takes Quinn’s hand in her own as she opens the door. She leads her up to the building, but stops short of the doors and veers off to the side. As the car drives away she pushes Quinn by the shoulders up against the brick, kissing her in shadow with a new fervor. Emboldened with the new privacy, her hands roam over her body as if searching, hunting for answers she knows she won’t find. She snarls one hand in Quinn’s hair, pulling it harder than she likes, while the other finds its way down the front of her skirt. 

“Fuck, Rach,” Quinn gasps as Rachel bites at the soft skin between her neck and her shoulder, rough enough and slow enough to leave purple marks. Quinn can’t slow her thoughts enough to realize the repercussions of this.

“Yeah?” Rachel prompts and her grip tightens at the back of Quinn’s head, forcing her neck back with a moan. 

“Can we- Inside?” Quinn pleads. Rachel just kisses her harder, biting her lip, shoving her back against the wall. Her fingers dance along the lace of her panties, making Quinn’s hips buck forward for more.

“What,” she teases, “you’re not  _ scared  _ this time?” She pulls away to look at Quinn, tugging on her hair again to receive a throaty moan. The sound is almost enough to break Rachel, have her dragging Quinn inside right then and there. She blinks it away though, cloudy eyes piercing right through her with sweet condescension. “You’re not going to push me away again?” 

“No, Rachel, Jesus,” Quinn insists, and while she intends the words to come out with snark, the malice is lost in a whine. As if to prove it, she grabs Rachel’s other arm, trying to force her hand lower. Rachel resists at first, then allows Quinn to guide her. The touch elicits a moan, an ‘oh my god,’ at which Rachel smirks, grazing her teeth along Quinn’s slack jaw before meeting her with another bruising kiss.

“Are you sure?” Rachel stops suddenly, purring in her ear, “because last time, if I recall-” 

“Fuck, a lot can change in six months,” Quinn cuts her off breathlessly. She’s not used to having to beg, having to talk her way to getting properly fucked. She glares desperately at Rachel.

“Well,” Rachel glares back, ”let’s hope nothing changes in two.” She steps away and turns around, fishing her key from her pocket. The sudden absence of her touch makes Quinn feel like the wind has been knocked out of her. She’s walking inside, leaving Quinn stunned and half-fucked in the dark.

“What?” She starts, “Rachel-“

“Bye, Quinn. See you in two months.”


	6. The Devil Lives in LA

Rachel and Quinn stay in touch over the next two months, through sporadic emails and skype conferences. The interactions are cordial and civil, save for the occasional snark. Once or twice, though, it goes a little differently. One night, after rehashing the budget six ways to Sunday, they’re wrapping up. Rachel takes a sip from an old plastic water bottle from god knows how many days ago, and stretches her arms. Her hotel bed is becoming increasingly uncomfortable, but it’s still better than the trailers that some of the other crew stay in.

“What the hell are you wearing?” Quinn asks, eyes on her midriff as her top lifts with the stretch of her arms.

“My locations manager gave it to me,” Rachel shrugs, watching Quinn’s eyes dart back up. What Rachel doesn’t tell her is that Mark had given it to her the night they’d first slept together. He was a little clingy, and she’d had to work to distance herself from him on set. Still, the fleece-lined jacket was comfy, and it kept her warm in the evenings. And anyway, off set she welcomed the company––as long as she didn’t have a meeting scheduled with Quinn. 

“What the hell are YOU wearing?” Rachel ripostes, turning the attention back on her. “Did Quinn King step foot in a thrift store?”

Quinn laughs wryly, “It’s Helmut Lang.”

“It’s ugly,” Rachel says, then takes a chance: “Take it off.”

“What?” Quinn thinks she’s misheard her.

“You’d look better without it. I said,  _ take it off _ .” Quinn is surprised, but Rachel says nothing else, just raises a brow in expectation. And so, Quinn obeys, shrugging off her domestic cashmere cardigan, which was a rare sight to begin with. Then, she crosses her arms, raising them up and pulling her shirt up over her head. Rachel smiles. 

“Better.”

And so this happens, just a handful of times. Only at Rachel’s request, though. Quinn doesn’t dare ask any more of her than she has already. Tentative guilt weighing on her conscience keeps her tongue tied, even when Rachel answers her facetimes in a bathrobe; a sports bra; a towel. Half these times Rachel rewards her restraint with a request, a demand, or a drop of a towel anyway, so Quinn waits patiently for these moments in which Rachel makes the moves.

Two weeks before she’s set to return to LA, Quinn is talking her through the final cast list until a knock at her front door interrupts her. She excuses herself while Rachel squints to see the grainy figure at the threshold through the pixelated screen.

“Richard?”

“I just wanted to stop by in person to tell you the paperwork has all been officiated!” He has a bottle of champagne in his hand, and Quinn has never invited him to her house before. He steps inside, and she frowns, taking a step back. 

“Uh, that’s great, but you didn’t have to,” she half-laughs, moving to guide him back out the door. Rachel’s eyes dart across the screen, watching curiously.

“I’d hope you think it’s a little more than ‘great,’ Quinn,” he says, and Rachel wonders if they’ve fucked. “It’s a  _ seven. figure. _ production deal!” This sends a jolt of electricity down Rachel’s spine. 

“Seven-figure production deal?” she exclaims, and Richard peers around Quinn who’s blocking the screen.

“Is that the infamous Rachel I’ve heard so much about?” he asks at the sound of her voice from the computer in the kitchen. Quinn had been working to keep their interactions as limited as possible, to keep the exact details of the network’s dealings out of Rachel’s orbit, so it’s worse when he continues: 

“Thank god this one was able to get you involved,” he calls over to the computer, “you know, we all should celebrate once you’re back from Korea; this wouldn’t have happened without your name.” 

“Thank you for stopping by with the news, we can talk about this later,” Quinn says, quiet but stern, putting a hand on his shoulder to turn him back around. She can smell the alcohol on his breath and cringes. It’s 10 AM; even she isn’t that messy. He resists at first, babbling something about how the three of them should have a conference call soon and discuss something that Quinn and Rachel have already handled, in all reality, but Quinn just turns him around and closes the door behind him. She lets out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding and clicks the deadbolt lock.

“Sorry,” she says, turning back to Rachel on her laptop, “Now you have a face to his emails, I guess.” 

“What was that? Seven figures––hinging on my name? What the hell was he talking about?” Anger tinges her words and Quinn averts her gaze, runs a hand through her hair, hesitating.

“I wasn’t enough for the network,” she states bitterly, “your career didn’t take that hit like mine did after last season... We needed your name attached to get things off the ground.”

“Oh my god,” scoffs Rachel, “was that something you were going ever to mention?” 

“Of course I was-”

“No, to me it sounds like you just wanted that paycheck to yourself.” 

“Please, Rachel, don’t go there. I was waiting until everything was official–” 

“Yeah, well it’s not so official anymore,” Rachel starts as Quinn frowns.

“Stop it, you’re not backing out now.” Her words are steely to cover her rising unease.

“No, I’m not. You’re calling Richard and getting me executive producer credit––showrunner––equal partner––or else I’m out.” Rachel holds her phone up into frame, “Try me.” Quinn grimaces as Rachel holds her stare for a beat. This isn’t how she envisioned this conversation. 

“Fine, but I’m not calling him now,” Quinn relents, and Rachel turns her phone to the screen to show her she’s starting to dial his number herself. Quinn cringes and stops her:

“Jesus, no, he’s drunk and the fucker’s probably still outside. I’ll email him in an hour.” 

“Fine. CC me,” says Rachel. 

“Fine,” says Quinn, and Rachel ends the call without another word.

Richard is aggravated by the change in plans, having to rework the crediting, but ultimately the network rolls with it to keep Rachel onboard. Pleased with herself, she boasts about it to Mark, but the victory still tastes frustratingly sour on her tongue. Two weeks later, she sits down next to him at the wrap party, the rest of the crew mingling and celebrating around a bonfire. She hands him a fresh beer and he holds them up for cheers. They take a drink in silence as he puts an arm around her shoulders. 

“Am I gonna see you back in the states?” he asks, as she crooks her neck up to look at him. 

“Why wouldn’t you?” she replies, batting her eyelashes like she did with Adam, Coleman, Jeremy. 

“You’ve got some big things coming up, Miss  _ Executive Producer, _ ” he laughs, and it’s genuine. She’s enjoyed his support, unwavering and simple, welcome ease and distraction after Quinn’s tumultuous visit months prior.

“I’m sure I can pencil in some time in my busy, busy schedule,” she smiles, and he smiles back. She turns her attention back to the party, where the DP is halfway into a bottle of tequila and trying to get someone to take him on in his undefeated reign of beer pong. “Do you wanna get out of here?” 

The next morning she wakes up to a 4:30 AM alarm on her iPhone. Mark stirs beside her as she untangles herself from the sheets and his arms.

“Hey,” he mumbles, pulling her back. 

“I have to go.”

“I know,” he plants a kiss on her shoulder before letting go, “have a safe flight. Let me know when you land.”

She nods, and stands up to pull her jeans on. She gathers her bags, brushes her teeth, and throws her hair in a rat’s nest of a bun. When she opens the door light from the hallway spills into the room.

“Rachel,” Mark calls as she turns around, halfway out the door. 

“Yeah?” 

“Don’t be a stranger.”

It’s a long flight back to Los Angeles, and when Rachel steps off the plane and into the terminal the jet-lag and dry plane air have her feeling almost hungover. LAX is always bustling, with hurried Hollywood types whirling around her talking on Bluetooth headsets only adding to her annoyance. She’s surprised to find a chauffeur holding her name card at the baggage claim; Quinn is really kissing ass. She considers blowing it off and catching her own ride home––she doesn’t need the charity––but she’s exhausted and as much as she hates to admit it, it’s actually quite helpful. As she gets into the car she gives the driver her address and to her surprise, he confirms he already has it as the requested destination. She had half expected Quinn to have ordered the car straight to her own front door, as if her presence were Domino’s pizza, rushed in at the click of her fingers. 

She takes a long shower as soon as she gets home, savoring the normalcy of her own apartment, dingy and dusty as it may be. While it’s good to be home, there’s a persistent unease in her stomach. She’s back, but things aren’t back to normal, not really. She groans thinking of her meeting with Quinn the next morning, and the knot furls tighter. The hot water helps to massage the feeling away, as does the showerhead pressed to her clit. When she opens the door and the steam clears, though, the discomfort returns, slowly and steadily creeping through her body until she feels a crick in her neck, but maybe that’s just from the flight.

Her phone chimes with a text from Mark asking if she made it okay. She deletes the thread and blocks the number before closing her blinds and climbing into bed.

She’d hoped to knock out as soon as her head hit the pillow, but her dull anxiety is cruel and unrelenting. Without getting out of bed, she rolls over and rummages through her bedside table. The drawer is full of shit: old sides from work, prescriptions she never abided by, condoms. Her fingers eventually find the neck of a half-drunk bottle of bourbon and she fishes it out from the swamp, considers this. It’s exactly the kind of sleep aide she’d have turned to eight months ago, but as she uncorks the bottle she cringes at the smell. It smells like a pounding headache in the morning, so she puts it back and concedes to a fitful night of tossing and turning.

The next morning, Quinn sits at an awful coffee shop in the Valley; the fucking  _ Valley.  _ Rachel really is putting her through it, she thinks, watching the people around her go about their business. A man in a plaid suit orders a drink with so many modifications the barista has to grab a manager in order to ring it in. Sometimes she really hates LA. She checks her watch and picks at the cardboard sleeve around her drink, tapping her toe impatiently. Her coffee isn’t even good, and she wonders how someone can fuck up an Americano so badly. She should’ve just gotten straight espresso, or better yet, insisted they go somewhere that wasn’t such a shithole. A call from Rachel has her phone dancing on the sticky resin tabletop. 

“Where are you?” Quinn scans the front door. 

“Where are  _ you?”  _ Rachel counters. 

“I’ve been here for 20 minutes.”

“The Palm?” Rachel asks, and Quinn frowns at the printed logo on her cup, then out the front window where she sees the other shop across the street. She hangs up without another word and runs next door. 

The Palm is much nicer, and with this, she’s significantly less annoyed as she walks through the door. Rachel is sitting near the window with her sunglasses on, her hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail.

“You were actually drinking that crap?” Rachel smirks at the cup Quinn carries in. She cringes and tosses it in the trash.

“Barely. You look like something dragged off Skid Row. How was your flight?” Quinn asks, sitting down across from her.

“Long,” Rachel shrugs, nursing her coffee. It’s already her second cup. Getting out of bed had been a struggle.

“Did you get the car I sent?” 

“Yeah.” 

Quinn waits for her to continue before realizing that’s all she’s going to give. “Okay, well, here’s the paperwork I was telling you about…” She starts to fan out the packet on the table. 

“You know, Richard already sent it to me,” Rachel says, taking her sunglasses off, blinking at the sunlight. Quinn frowns as Rachel pinches the bridge of her nose.

Quinn snaps the folder shut, “Then tell me why the hell you dragged me out here at 10 AM?”

Rachel just shrugs again, studying her more clearly without the tint of her shades. Quinn sits back, crossing her arms with her mouth set in a tight line. Rachel had thought seeing her would be worse, she thought she’d be more pissed when they finally sat down face to face again. The anger she’d been harboring since finding out about the deal still sat fermenting in her gut, just muted now and buried under caffeine.

“Because I can, I guess.” 

“Jesus, Rach. Most people actually know my time is valuable,” Quinn responds, putting her purse back on her shoulder to leave.

“Not the network, I guess,” Rachel jabs and Quinn freezes, shoots her a scowl. 

“Save it.”

“Did you really think I wasn’t going to find out?” Rachel asks, and Quinn slowly slides her purse back into her lap.

“God, I was going to tell you...” 

“Try again,” Rachel says. Quinn sighs, pushing her hair behind her ear even though it hadn’t disturbed her, staying quiet on her neck framing her tired face. She thinks it’s too damn early for this conversation. She doesn’t meet Rachel’s eyes while she chews on her words, trying hard to come up with a palatable explanation, one that doesn’t taste bitter on her tongue. It’s more than likely they all will, so she just comes out with it:

“Do you know how embarrassing this is for me? I built an empire; killed myself for that show–”

“Like you were the only one?” Rachel interrupts. 

“Let me finish. I  _ created _ Everlasting, made god-knows how many millions for Gary and Brad and every other piece of shit man in this town and now I can’t even get a damn pilot ordered.”

Rachel frowns and thinks this over, turns to watch people pass on the sidewalk on the other side of the window. The sun glints off bits of broken glass in the street, glittering and hazardous. She wonders how long it takes for the shards to break down into grains of dust, how many times a car has to pass over it, tires crunching it into the asphalt before it’s neutralized, no longer sharp enough to draw blood? 

“Jeez... Maybe if you’d told me that upfront-”

“Then what? You would’ve left your shantytown and jumped in to help?” she scoffs, rolls her eyes at Rachel. “Don’t pretend you’re a better person than you are. You would’ve rubbed it in my face.”

“Oh, thanks for clearing that up,” Rachel starts, glaring something powerful, anger bubbling up again out of its quiet wait. “Really, thank you, Quinn, for always telling me how I feel.” She crosses her arms and leans back in her chair, waiting for a concession.

Quinn sighs heavily, looks up to the ceiling as if she might be lucky enough to find the right words. She didn’t mean to snap but she’s defensive and on edge.

“Look, I’m sorry,” she spits after a moment, and it’s as if the words are burning her. “Is that what you need to hear?”

“To start,” says Rachel, and Quinn groans.

“I’d like to know now, if you have a day in mind, maybe something I can mark in my calendar,” Quinn starts as Rachel raises a brow, “You know, when I can expect you to stop punishing me so we can actually work together, like adults.”

Rachel gives a wry laugh. “Sorry, you’re asking  _ me _ ? You’re the one who flew across the world to work me like a john.”

Quinn’s mouth sets tighter. “I flew across the world to get you back.”

“Interesting way to negotiate business, ‘cause it read more like prostitution.” 

“Fuck you,” Quinn retorts, and Rachel cocks her head teasingly.

“Wouldn’t you like to?”

“Oh, now tell me––is that a real invitation? Or do you plan on leaving me blue-balled in the dark again?” Quinn sneers, rolling her eyes. 

“I don’t know,” shrugs Rachel, and Quinn groans.

“Rachel, please. We work together for god’s sake.”

“Didn’t seem to matter in Cape Town. Or wait, do you only seduce people until they sign a contract? You know, you really should have better follow-through. Some might say I was recruited under false pretenses…”

“I hope you’re enjoying this shit,” Quinn seethes, “because it’s getting old fast.” She gathers her bag up again and makes for the door. Rachel watches her go and wishes she was, in fact, enjoying this shit more. There’s a niggling feeling in her gut that’s taking away from the fun of pushing her buttons, a part of her that agrees with Quinn: It is getting old.

She finishes her coffee and heads out for a day full of LA traffic and errands. By the time she returns home she’s exhausted still from the time change and decides to take a much-needed nap. She’s woken up by her phone ringing at 6:30. She gropes for it, lost somewhere in the tangle of her bedsheets.

“Miss me already?” Rachel answers, and she thinks she can practically hear Quinn’s eyes rolling. 

“I need you to come over and help me fix this budget,” Quinn demands, trying to leave little room for dissent. But Rachel’s never been one to blindly agree so easily.

“What’s wrong with it?”

“I don’t know, that’s why I need you to come over and help me figure it out,” Quinn repeats, annoyance growing.

“Just email it to me and I’ll take a look.” 

“Just come over.” 

“Fine,” Rachel says, and hangs up the phone before rolling over, dozing for another 20 minutes.

By the time she arrives at Quinn’s front door, it’s almost 8:00. She knocks and tries to shake the Deja Vu. She half expects Chet to greet her. When Quinn opens the door and gives her a tired half-smile it’s a much better welcome. 

“You took your sweet time,” she says, and Rachel shrugs, slipping off her shoes at the rack inside the door.

“I was busy.” 

Quinn walks into the kitchen and Rachel follows, socked feet padding quietly behind her on the hardwood floors. Quinn’s laptop sits at the table, surrounded by paperwork and an empty glass of what was probably vodka. 

“You redid the kitchen,” Rachel muses, appreciating the new marble and furniture. It’s brighter than before, and while it’s all different, it feels so much the same. 

“Needed a change,” Quinn nods, sitting down and pulling out a chair for Rachel beside her. “If you want something to drink, help yourself.”

Rachel opens the liquor cabinet and draws her fingers over the bottles, perusing the top shelf collection. There’s a lot less here than she remembers. She finds the Grey Goose, surely a new different bottle than the last time she opened this cabinet, given Quinn’s rate of consumption, but a chillingly familiar sight all the same. She shakes off a shiver and turns back to Quinn, vodka in hand.

“Is this you? Want another glass?” 

“No, I’m not drinking,” Quinn says, and Rachel frowns, puts the bottle down and closes the cabinet. 

“Everything okay?”

“I’m not a complete wino, Rach,” Quinn kind of scoffs, and then pauses, rethinks this. “At least not off set.” Rachel smirks and shrugs, sits down beside her. 

“What’s the issue that’s so urgent I had to be here?” 

Quinn pushes her hair behind her ear and sighs. “I don’t know why it’s not adding up. You’re good with numbers.” She pushes the computer towards Rachel who scans it over. It just takes a couple minutes until she’s found the issue and balanced the spreadsheet. 

“There,” Rachel says, sitting back and turning the computer back to Quinn. “Look better?” 

Quinn nods as she looks it over. It wasn’t really anything she couldn’t have fixed on her own, but her house has been feeling a little too big and empty lately, more so today with Rachel back in town. Knowing she’s just 25 minutes away rather than 22 hours somehow makes the distance all the more troublesome.

“Was there anything else?” Rachel asks, pulling her hair back into a ponytail and glancing at Quinn who’s still staring at the laptop. Quinn hums and tries hard to think of a reason to keep her around. “Quinn?” 

“Have you eaten?” Quinn asks as Rachel raises a brow, shakes her head. “I was going to order something, if you wanted to stick around…” 

Rachel bites at a hangnail, considers the ramifications of this, all while Quinn watches with a flick of uncertain eyelashes. 

“I guess I don’t have anything else going on,” she cedes, and Quinn smiles. 

“What do you want?” 

“Honestly? Mario’s,” Rachel says, and Quinn grimaces but yields to her request without a fight. Whatever it takes to keep her company. As Quinn orders the food and they settle into the couch, watching something on TV that really has neither of their attention. When the doorbell finally rings it makes them both jump. Quinn comes back with two plates of pizza and they eat in silence. It’s not uncomfortable so much as it is anticipatory, each of them trying to figure out how to navigate this terrain.

“What are you doing?” Rachel asks after a minute. Quinn is picking all the olives off her pizza, making a neat little pile on the corner of her plate. 

“I don’t like olives.” 

“Why’d you order it then?” Rachel asks, and Quinn turns to look at her with a shrug.

“Don’t you like them?” she replies, gesturing to her slice, gnawed down to the crust. Rachel allows a smile and shakes her head.

“I just can’t read you sometimes.” 

Quinn dabs the grease off her pizza with a napkin before taking another bite. “What do you want to know?” 

Rachel puts her plate down on the coffee table and turns to look more directly at Quinn beside her. She pulls her legs up underneath her and rests her head on one of the throw pillows on the back of the couch. Quinn mirrors her and suddenly things feel a lot more intimate than they have all night. They sit two feet apart, attention undivided and uninhibited by alcohol or work or anything else.

“What happened with Chet?” Rachel thinks it seems like a good, neutral place to start––there’s still a lot of catching up to be done––but Quinn rolls her eyes so hard that she fears she might have gotten off on the wrong foot. 

“I think it was you who called him an incompetent man-baby, so you tell me. We wanted different things,” Quinn sighs, and it’s an oversimplification, but it’s true. “He wanted bimbos and I wanted– well, it doesn’t matter what I wanted…” Her words trail off and she plays with the hem of her blouse, pulling at a thread there, daring it to unravel.

“The last time I was here,” Rachel starts, noticing Quinn’s posture stiffen, “I shouldn’t have yelled at you.” It’s an apology, but not in so many words. Quinn recognizes this, waves it off. 

“What’s past is past.”

Rachel nods and Quinn motions for her to ask another question. 

“Why’d you call me over tonight? Really.”

“The budget-”

“Bullshit,” Rachel cuts her off, “You’ve never fucked up a budget in your life.” 

Quinn sighs and runs a hand through her hair. “You’re finally back in town. I missed you, so sue me,” she says as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. Blindsided by the nonchalance, Rachel’s head snaps up in surprise, but Quinn just shrugs and stands up, exits the room, and returns with a bottle of cabernet and two glasses. She pours the wine and hands a glass to Rachel, holds her own up for cheers, but Rachel shakes her head.

“I have another question. What do you want?” She takes a deep breath as Quinn’s smile falls. “Really. Do you just want to work together like adults?” She makes air quotes around her words and her question trails off as the rest need not be said. Quinn takes a long sip of her drink and for the first time tonight brings her stony walls back up. 

“Of course I do,” she says, and it’s the same voice she uses in meetings with higher-ups. It’s cool and level and reserved, and not at all genuine. Rachel holds her stare and sets her mouth in a tight line. 

“Then cheers to that,” she nods, deadpan, holding up her glass in challenge. “If that’s all you want.”

Now it’s Quinn’s turn to hesitate, eyeing Rachel warily.

“Now that you mention it, there is something else I want. I want you to cut the shit,” Quinn says, her tone softer now. Rachel raises a brow for her to continue. “You clearly hold the cards, so I fold. No more games.” It’s supposed to be a demand, but it’s more of a request, a plea, a last-ditch hail mary attempt at something real.

“Deal.” Rachel nods once in agreement, motions again to clink their drinks, and this time Quinn allows it. 

They both take a long sip, watching the other over the rim of their glasses. When they come up for air it’s as if there’s none to be found, and Quinn’s chest feels tight. She puts her glass down on the table and half-stands up to take Rachel’s out of her hand too. When she sits back down it’s closer to Rachel than before. 

“Then I’m not playing,” she starts, placing a hand on Rachel’s neck, “when I do  _ this _ .” 

She leans in to meet her lips, soft and gentle and genuine. This time there’s no clash of teeth or liquored breath, just warmth and certainty and ease. When she finally pulls away her chest is heaving and Rachel’s hands are wrapped around her, on her waist and in her hair. As Rachel catches her breath she doesn’t take her fingers off of Quinn. She just strokes the side of her face with her thumb and twirls her dark hair through her fingers. 

“You’re serious?” she breathes, brows furrowed in a humorless stare.

“As cancer,” Quinn replies, taking her face in her hands and kissing her again. Rachel kisses back hard, fervently, as if she’s going to disappear at any minute, and Quinn feels it, knows she needs more. “Rachel, I told you. You’re my girl.” 

And it’s exactly what Rachel needs to hear, and it’s exactly what Quinn needs to say. And with that, Rachel exhales a heavy breath, presses her forehead to Quinn’s, and smiles. And when they leave the couch 20 minutes later, Rachel doesn’t go home, but instead follows Quinn upstairs where they’d fought eight months ago. This time there’s no animosity or anxiety, just the ache for tender fingerprints etched into each other’s skin. 

As they make their way into the bedroom their hands both search for something more permanent than _ money dick power,  _ more than unspoken agreements or even signed contracts. Rachel wants Quinn’s fingers to sear into her flesh a sign of belonging, something that will tell her for sure that she’s finally home. Because that’s what this feels like, in Quinn’s satin sheets, with her hair tousled and falling out of its elastic ponytail. Disheveled, she’s falling apart but she’s never felt more whole.

Finally, Quinn’s lips on her collarbone do mark her with a soft bruise on delicate skin, showing anyone who dares come after that she had been here: in this space, on this skin, and in these veins––that Quinn would  _ always  _ be here. And Rachel knows, as her eyes float up to the ornate blades of the ceiling fan above them, spinning with a steady resolution, that there’s really no way there could ever be anyone else after Quinn, and that there’s nowhere else she’d rather be. They’re the end game. They’re the story, the ratings, the life that coursed through both Everlasting and each other. Together, they’re better than either of them could ever hope to be apart. 

As Rachel pushes staticky hairs from Quinn’s cheeks she draws her face up so their eyes meet.

“I need to know that you’re really in this,” she breathes, “for real.” 

Quinn sighs and plants another kiss before rolling her eyes. “Jesus, you want me to say it? I love you, okay?” She kisses her once more as if to drive the point home. “What would any of this have been for if I didn’t?”


End file.
